My son stood beside me today as I cried. And I cried all day. It began last night with the devastating reality that my husband was never coming home. After three months you would think I had come to understand that, but apparently not, for the empty side of our bed, the burning desire to talk with him, the need to be held, the longing to hear his voice, to see him laughing, the visual reminders of the life we had built together descended upon me in a crushing burst of reality. And the reality was too much to bear. Too much. He was gone. In a single moment he disappeared from my life, just vanished. I couldn’t breath. The grief unleashed its power, pushing in and around me physically until I was sure I would hear bones snap under the weight of it. After hours of unrelenting crying, I finally picked up the phone and called my sister, woke her at 1:30 in the morning, and sobbed. We cried together until I could finally breath enough to drink some water and take the pill that would help me sleep the night.
Today continued in torment. I just could not stop the tears. I couldn’t stop the images. I didn’t have the strength to do anything other than allow the pain to pour out of me.
I was thankfully not alone. My sister, mother and two friends were interspersed throughout my day. But it was my son, who has just turned six, that was my rock today. All day long he checked on me. And all day long he ministered to his grieving mother. At one point, he silently went and got a roll of paper towels, tore one off and handed it to me. A few moments later, he handed me another. “I’ve got more,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ve got more.”
At the pool, when even in front of strangers I could not stop the flow, he went to his bag, took out his swim towel and offered it to me. I don’t want to get it wet, I said, you’ll need it for when you get out of therapy. “It will only get a little wet," he answered. “Take it mommy. You need it for your tears." When I continued to sob he then crawled into my lap and just hugged me. He held me the only way a six year old child knows how. He rested his head on my chest, put his arms around me and just held on. From the outside it might have appeared that I was holding him. The truth was, he was holding me.
And on through the day he continued to minister. Coming to find me, asking in his little-boy voice, “Are you crying, Mommy?” Each time I had to admit that yes, I still could not stop. And each time he’d stand or just sit by me, waiting until I could speak again, waiting until he felt he could leave for a while, only to come back later and check on me again, bringing me tissues or giving me hugs.
This both horrifies me and profoundly moves me. The weight of the responsibility of being the parent pushes me to be stronger, to be an anchor for them. But today I was anchored by my son. My little, blond, Myron look-alike son who just quietly let me know he loved me, that he cared that I was hurting, that it was okay.
As I struggle to make it to a day where breathing is easier, and those days do come, I see movement in Karson’s own little journey of grief. Where once he could not handle the sight of his mother in tears, he now ministers to her. Where once it frightened him to sense the grief, he now is beginning to understand that the tears are one way of allowing the sadness to be released. “Its good you are crying, right Mommy?” he said today. “Its letting some of the sadness out.” Yes, my love. You are beginning to understand. We are not created to hold this much pain. Our spirits cannot bear it. They were not created to bear it. But they must learn to endure as The Father shows us how He will bear it for us. He too has a Son who ministers. He too has a Son who loves. We will learn, the five of us and all who surround us and share our loss, to allow him to slowly, tear by tear, begin to hold the pain for us until we can breath again, great gasps of hope and peace.
Thank you, my son, for your love. I hope tomorrow is a better day. I pray for the numbness to return if only for a while, just enough to get my feet back under me, to take a quick breath of air before the weight of the grief comes back to crush me once again. And I pray for mercy, Lord, mercy on us as we try to bear what we are facing. Please God, have mercy.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
My Birthday Boy
It was Karson’s birthday today. My little boy turned six years old. He started the day by throwing open my bedroom door and announcing, “Yeah! It’s my birthday!” As he hurled himself onto my bed, I demanded a hug during which he asked, “Do I hug any older?” As we lay there, his little blond head against my chest, his little body in my arms, he said simply, “I wish daddy could be here.” No tears, no fuss. Just a simple statement that sums up what we are feeling every minute of every day. We all wish daddy were here. Everything would be good if daddy were here.
But I hope it was good anyways. I have celebrated the birthdays of three children now without their daddy’s hugs and kisses, without his yearly ritual of begging them not to grow any older, of placing his hands upon their heads and pretending to press down to slow their growth. Three birthdays where he wasn’t around to do the games, or pray over them or ask them if this was the best birthday ever. For some reason Karson’s has been the most difficult for me. Maybe because I’m getting worn down. Maybe because he’s so little. I don’t know. It was just really, really difficult which made me sad because a six year old should be surrounded only by happiness on this day. Not by this. Never by this.
The reality of life without him is getting more and more difficult to bear. Life without Myron feels worthless, meaningless. I know that eventually God will help me find new purpose, new meaning. But right now everything takes effort, so much effort. And I am so tired and so broken it feels too difficult. The shattered pieces of my life are beginning to slice, creating new wounds, new areas of pain. They have not even begun to heal. Everywhere I turn, every step I take cuts me open so that I long to stand perfectly still, frozen in a place so nothing new will hurt. I don’t want to have to keep moving.
But life doesn’t work that way, at least a life where four children are watching and needing help with their own open wounds. I cannot stay suspended, I must endure. Somehow, I must endure. It won’t be with my own strength, though, as that is gone. It will have to come from somewhere else. Jesus, give me strength.
The highlight of my day was when Taeryn told Karson she had his present ready for him. As he waited, she turned and gave him a big hug then kissed him on the cheek. “There,” she said, “that’s for you!” “Thanks, Taeryn,” said my boy. “That was a good present!”
I have reasons to love the past, reasons to love the present. The future is more difficult to appreciate from this position, more difficult to see as possibly being meaningful. I guess every day in my future will one day become both the present and eventually the past. Maybe I will appreciate it more when it does.
Happy birthday, my funny, adorable, little Karson. You bring me so much joy. A hug in the morning from you is what fuels me with purpose. I hope that somehow, you enjoy being six.
But I hope it was good anyways. I have celebrated the birthdays of three children now without their daddy’s hugs and kisses, without his yearly ritual of begging them not to grow any older, of placing his hands upon their heads and pretending to press down to slow their growth. Three birthdays where he wasn’t around to do the games, or pray over them or ask them if this was the best birthday ever. For some reason Karson’s has been the most difficult for me. Maybe because I’m getting worn down. Maybe because he’s so little. I don’t know. It was just really, really difficult which made me sad because a six year old should be surrounded only by happiness on this day. Not by this. Never by this.
The reality of life without him is getting more and more difficult to bear. Life without Myron feels worthless, meaningless. I know that eventually God will help me find new purpose, new meaning. But right now everything takes effort, so much effort. And I am so tired and so broken it feels too difficult. The shattered pieces of my life are beginning to slice, creating new wounds, new areas of pain. They have not even begun to heal. Everywhere I turn, every step I take cuts me open so that I long to stand perfectly still, frozen in a place so nothing new will hurt. I don’t want to have to keep moving.
But life doesn’t work that way, at least a life where four children are watching and needing help with their own open wounds. I cannot stay suspended, I must endure. Somehow, I must endure. It won’t be with my own strength, though, as that is gone. It will have to come from somewhere else. Jesus, give me strength.
The highlight of my day was when Taeryn told Karson she had his present ready for him. As he waited, she turned and gave him a big hug then kissed him on the cheek. “There,” she said, “that’s for you!” “Thanks, Taeryn,” said my boy. “That was a good present!”
I have reasons to love the past, reasons to love the present. The future is more difficult to appreciate from this position, more difficult to see as possibly being meaningful. I guess every day in my future will one day become both the present and eventually the past. Maybe I will appreciate it more when it does.
Happy birthday, my funny, adorable, little Karson. You bring me so much joy. A hug in the morning from you is what fuels me with purpose. I hope that somehow, you enjoy being six.
Friday, March 25, 2011
5.3 vs 6
I went car shopping tonight. How do you buy a car when you don’t know anything about cars? As a matter of fact, how am I going to do any of the things I didn’t know I’d one day have to do?
The last time we bought a car I was one week short of giving birth to Karson. Myron had been researching vans but due to his meticulous need to procrastinate, we were now in a panic to get it bought and brought home before the baby came. Our current vehicle sat five. We were now going to be six and the clock was ticking.
Car shopping at 39 weeks gestation is not enjoyable. Actually, nothing is enjoyable at 39 weeks. We drove into the Vancouver area where Myron had several picked out to test drive. They were used but we were trading in our 1992 car for something in the next century and that in itself seemed luxurious. He finally narrowed it down to two, each in a different city. Back and forth we drove, discussing the merits of each, debating whether buying the newer model (still four years old) was worth losing the storage space in the older one; whether we could talk the dealer into a warranty (we could); and whether or not we were really prepared to spend $16,000 on a van. Now that I’ve seen the cost of a newer vehicle, I’d say we should have been jumping up and down for joy, although that could have meant Karson would have been born in a used car lot. Anyhow, as we sat in the first dealership for the third time, I looked down at my swelling ankles, noticed the ravenous hunger that pregnant women feel when they haven’t eaten in the last thirty minutes and said, “That’s it! We’re getting this one! Take me home!”
And so we did. As we said goodbye to the car that had brought home children numbers two and three, my husband hoisted me up into the seat, gave me a milkshake and we headed back to Mission.
At that time, I had only three conditions for buying a different vehicle: it had to have air-conditioning, it had to have sliding doors on either side, and it had to be a nice colour. Isn’t that all that’s important? Surely everything else is just implied.
I found out today, it’s not. In the models I was test-driving, the 5.3 L engine is more fuel efficient than the 6 L. The 6 speed transmission is also more fuel-efficient than the 4 speed which is an update that pertains to the 2009 models and newer, and all of the models I looked at are built on the same platform as well as have v-8 engines. The newest ones use continuous four-wheel drive while the 2009 models can switch from two to four at your convenience which also affects your fuel economy and the price for any of these could have purchased a small country in some parts of the world.
I now have to know. I have to know how to choose a car, or at least choose a friend that can help me choose a car (thanks, Irv). I now have to know how to create a budget when my past method was to spend until Myron’s face began to twitch at which time I’d hold off until the next pay period. I now have to know which accounts will produce the least charges, what my credit card limit is and whether or not boosting the thermostat to 21 degrees will cost too much. I have to know because I have no one to know it for me. Its up to me.
Karson has said on three occasions, “Now you’ll have to do ALL the work, Mommy,” which seems to be a fairly astute observation for a five year old. I also sense he feels this reality is unfair and that it saddens him. Or maybe it worries him, which could be a sign of his intelligence.
It does seem unfair. Unfair that the few areas I could leave to someone else have now landed squarely in my lap. Unfair that I have to set aside the things that brought us pleasure to make room for the things that bring us survival. Unfair that I have to make these decisions alone, decisions that at least in my world, were designed for two.
But life isn’t fair, is it? Not for me, not for anyone. Life is not about justice or what makes sense. Life is a gift that we unwrap a moment at a time and then choose to deal or not to deal with what lies within. And yet, it is still a gift, whether I can comprehend that or not.
And so I continue to wade through mountains of new information on rsps and mortgage penalties and the lifespan of a water heater and the difference between a 5.3 and a 6 L engine. I haven’t bought a car yet, but I will. And just like Myron made sure of, it is going to be a safe one. Maybe not brand new, but safe.
And despite all that I now need to know, despite all that makes sense and does not make sense, despite what I have yet to learn, I’m determined that in the midst of it all, at the end of the day, ridiculously, its still got to be a nice colour.
The last time we bought a car I was one week short of giving birth to Karson. Myron had been researching vans but due to his meticulous need to procrastinate, we were now in a panic to get it bought and brought home before the baby came. Our current vehicle sat five. We were now going to be six and the clock was ticking.
Car shopping at 39 weeks gestation is not enjoyable. Actually, nothing is enjoyable at 39 weeks. We drove into the Vancouver area where Myron had several picked out to test drive. They were used but we were trading in our 1992 car for something in the next century and that in itself seemed luxurious. He finally narrowed it down to two, each in a different city. Back and forth we drove, discussing the merits of each, debating whether buying the newer model (still four years old) was worth losing the storage space in the older one; whether we could talk the dealer into a warranty (we could); and whether or not we were really prepared to spend $16,000 on a van. Now that I’ve seen the cost of a newer vehicle, I’d say we should have been jumping up and down for joy, although that could have meant Karson would have been born in a used car lot. Anyhow, as we sat in the first dealership for the third time, I looked down at my swelling ankles, noticed the ravenous hunger that pregnant women feel when they haven’t eaten in the last thirty minutes and said, “That’s it! We’re getting this one! Take me home!”
And so we did. As we said goodbye to the car that had brought home children numbers two and three, my husband hoisted me up into the seat, gave me a milkshake and we headed back to Mission.
At that time, I had only three conditions for buying a different vehicle: it had to have air-conditioning, it had to have sliding doors on either side, and it had to be a nice colour. Isn’t that all that’s important? Surely everything else is just implied.
I found out today, it’s not. In the models I was test-driving, the 5.3 L engine is more fuel efficient than the 6 L. The 6 speed transmission is also more fuel-efficient than the 4 speed which is an update that pertains to the 2009 models and newer, and all of the models I looked at are built on the same platform as well as have v-8 engines. The newest ones use continuous four-wheel drive while the 2009 models can switch from two to four at your convenience which also affects your fuel economy and the price for any of these could have purchased a small country in some parts of the world.
I now have to know. I have to know how to choose a car, or at least choose a friend that can help me choose a car (thanks, Irv). I now have to know how to create a budget when my past method was to spend until Myron’s face began to twitch at which time I’d hold off until the next pay period. I now have to know which accounts will produce the least charges, what my credit card limit is and whether or not boosting the thermostat to 21 degrees will cost too much. I have to know because I have no one to know it for me. Its up to me.
Karson has said on three occasions, “Now you’ll have to do ALL the work, Mommy,” which seems to be a fairly astute observation for a five year old. I also sense he feels this reality is unfair and that it saddens him. Or maybe it worries him, which could be a sign of his intelligence.
It does seem unfair. Unfair that the few areas I could leave to someone else have now landed squarely in my lap. Unfair that I have to set aside the things that brought us pleasure to make room for the things that bring us survival. Unfair that I have to make these decisions alone, decisions that at least in my world, were designed for two.
But life isn’t fair, is it? Not for me, not for anyone. Life is not about justice or what makes sense. Life is a gift that we unwrap a moment at a time and then choose to deal or not to deal with what lies within. And yet, it is still a gift, whether I can comprehend that or not.
And so I continue to wade through mountains of new information on rsps and mortgage penalties and the lifespan of a water heater and the difference between a 5.3 and a 6 L engine. I haven’t bought a car yet, but I will. And just like Myron made sure of, it is going to be a safe one. Maybe not brand new, but safe.
And despite all that I now need to know, despite all that makes sense and does not make sense, despite what I have yet to learn, I’m determined that in the midst of it all, at the end of the day, ridiculously, its still got to be a nice colour.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
A Divine Exchange
My mind constantly needs something to focus on. Working with the kids, sorting through closets, re-arranging rooms…anything and everything to distract it from the pain.
I am told that the brain has its way of shutting down the stimulus of physical sensation in trauma. It’s a protective mechanism. Shock. I felt no pain at the accident, even though my left side was blackened with the impact and my neck, shoulder, arm and hand were injured. Nothing until after Taeryn was well out of surgery the first night, until Lauren was out of surgery the second, until Karson began talking, until I knew they were all going to be okay. Only then did I begin to feel the physical effects of my own injuries. I wish my brain could do the same now, could just shut off the ability to feel what hurts. Because everything inside hurts. There is a feeling of hysteria that sometimes sits in the pit of my stomach reminding me that all is not well.
Taeryn was definitely the child to turn our hair gray. From not breathing at birth, to throwing up thirty times a day for eight months, to having to call poison control three times before she was three (child-proof and “Taeryn-proof” were two different things) she was the equivalent of three monkeys packed into the body of one charming and adorable little girl.
I know, we sound like terrible parents. But to be fair, this kid was quick. And smart. Her natural combination of too much curiosity and too little fear finally drove us to buy a baby-leash. But only after we’d lost her for the third time.
The first was on the ferry from Vancouver to Vancouver Island. Myron had the kids in the boat’s playroom. It was small and crowded but there was only one doorway, so Myron bought a paper and sat down against the door jam, his legs stretched across the opening. I had gone to change Karson and on returning noticed that we were short a tot. “Where’s Taeryn?” I asked. “In there,” he said, looking at the sports section. “No, she’s not!” I returned, beginning to panic. She had walked right over daddy’s legs and disappeared. Panic. Pure, uncontrollable panic began to well up in me. Myron could see it all over my face as we rushed down the seats calling her name. An announcement was made and it seemed like forever until finally a steward appeared carrying our little explorer.
The second time was at Science World. I had brought all four kids. Karson was in a stroller, and Taeryn had been great. At two and a half, she stuck with me through the science shows, through the exhibits, the Lego Room and through the hands-on zone. We then stopped to see the animal room. I was showing the kids a turtle when suddenly she wasn’t there. Having been through this once already, I lengthened my ability to remain calm to a full three minutes and then began fighting the hysteria. It took twenty minutes for the staff to find her, twenty minutes of searching through 27 school-buses of children. When they led her back I burst into tears and hugged her hard. She began to cry as well, patting my back and saying, “Why are we crying, Mommy?”
We bought the leash. I know, not suave, not sophisticated. But absolutely and totally necessary.
The third time she disappeared was at home. We just couldn’t find her. The girls and I searched the house, then the yard, and finally the neighbourhood. People came out of their houses to help and finally someone said, “You’d better call 911, its been 15 minutes.” The operator told me to keep calm and begin searching from top to bottom. “They’re usually asleep somewhere,” she assured me. Yeah, but Taeryn’s not usually anything. She’s usually unusually doing something. I searched through every room as the operator worked to keep me calm. There was a sudden burst of screaming as the girls stumbled over her curled form tucked behind the kitchen counter. Fast asleep, thumb in her mouth and blankie under her head, how we missed her I have no idea, but there she was. Lauren and Bryn were borderline hysterical in their relief. I knew exactly how they felt.
That helpless feeling, the one that says, “Something in my world is not right and needs to be fixed immediately,” is the one I feel when my mind has nothing to do. When I realize again that there is no fix for this. No way to make it better. No way to wake up to a different reality. Myron used to step in when I hit this wall, with his calm and logical manner. Myron used to help by taking over. Now I am alone, with thoughts I do not want to think, trying to find something I have no energy to do. But its how I survive my day until suddenly I am in the bathroom, or driving the car or packing up something trivial like used cheques with both our names on them, and that horrible feeling of “this is not right” bursts forth once again.
Last night I told God I hated him. Three times I told the Creator of the Universe that He had done something wrong, had made a terrible mistake and that I hated him for it. I felt a hand place itself on my head as He quietly said, “I know. And its okay.”
He owes me nothing and yet I feel like promises have been broken. And in my heart I know that I do not truly hate Him. I just hate this.
There is no comfort right now, only the bleak reality that I will continue to wake up, continue to breath and continue to learn to love Him despite it all. My children will continue to be an inspiration and hopefully, prayerfully, I hope to one day be able to reflect the strength and beauty of the community around me.
For I am in the same breath, thankful to a loving God who has supplied me with people of great compassion. People who minister. I have been surrounded by so many communities of love. My family, my friends, the church, my neighbourhood, Myron’s work, and our Summit staff who took their time and love and created an event purely to bless my family, the details of which astound and mystify me, as does the fruits of their labour.
And in the next breath, the first being “I hate you,” the second, “I thank you,” I am filled with an inexplicable sense that there is a divine exchange in the works. That heaven is opening and that something is being offered. Maybe to me, to my children, or maybe to all of us. And despite my desperation to be given back what I was not owed, I am compelled to raise my trembling hand and receive. A Divine Exchange. I know what has been taken. I sense that I know little of all that will be offered in return.
I am told that the brain has its way of shutting down the stimulus of physical sensation in trauma. It’s a protective mechanism. Shock. I felt no pain at the accident, even though my left side was blackened with the impact and my neck, shoulder, arm and hand were injured. Nothing until after Taeryn was well out of surgery the first night, until Lauren was out of surgery the second, until Karson began talking, until I knew they were all going to be okay. Only then did I begin to feel the physical effects of my own injuries. I wish my brain could do the same now, could just shut off the ability to feel what hurts. Because everything inside hurts. There is a feeling of hysteria that sometimes sits in the pit of my stomach reminding me that all is not well.
Taeryn was definitely the child to turn our hair gray. From not breathing at birth, to throwing up thirty times a day for eight months, to having to call poison control three times before she was three (child-proof and “Taeryn-proof” were two different things) she was the equivalent of three monkeys packed into the body of one charming and adorable little girl.
I know, we sound like terrible parents. But to be fair, this kid was quick. And smart. Her natural combination of too much curiosity and too little fear finally drove us to buy a baby-leash. But only after we’d lost her for the third time.
The first was on the ferry from Vancouver to Vancouver Island. Myron had the kids in the boat’s playroom. It was small and crowded but there was only one doorway, so Myron bought a paper and sat down against the door jam, his legs stretched across the opening. I had gone to change Karson and on returning noticed that we were short a tot. “Where’s Taeryn?” I asked. “In there,” he said, looking at the sports section. “No, she’s not!” I returned, beginning to panic. She had walked right over daddy’s legs and disappeared. Panic. Pure, uncontrollable panic began to well up in me. Myron could see it all over my face as we rushed down the seats calling her name. An announcement was made and it seemed like forever until finally a steward appeared carrying our little explorer.
The second time was at Science World. I had brought all four kids. Karson was in a stroller, and Taeryn had been great. At two and a half, she stuck with me through the science shows, through the exhibits, the Lego Room and through the hands-on zone. We then stopped to see the animal room. I was showing the kids a turtle when suddenly she wasn’t there. Having been through this once already, I lengthened my ability to remain calm to a full three minutes and then began fighting the hysteria. It took twenty minutes for the staff to find her, twenty minutes of searching through 27 school-buses of children. When they led her back I burst into tears and hugged her hard. She began to cry as well, patting my back and saying, “Why are we crying, Mommy?”
We bought the leash. I know, not suave, not sophisticated. But absolutely and totally necessary.
The third time she disappeared was at home. We just couldn’t find her. The girls and I searched the house, then the yard, and finally the neighbourhood. People came out of their houses to help and finally someone said, “You’d better call 911, its been 15 minutes.” The operator told me to keep calm and begin searching from top to bottom. “They’re usually asleep somewhere,” she assured me. Yeah, but Taeryn’s not usually anything. She’s usually unusually doing something. I searched through every room as the operator worked to keep me calm. There was a sudden burst of screaming as the girls stumbled over her curled form tucked behind the kitchen counter. Fast asleep, thumb in her mouth and blankie under her head, how we missed her I have no idea, but there she was. Lauren and Bryn were borderline hysterical in their relief. I knew exactly how they felt.
That helpless feeling, the one that says, “Something in my world is not right and needs to be fixed immediately,” is the one I feel when my mind has nothing to do. When I realize again that there is no fix for this. No way to make it better. No way to wake up to a different reality. Myron used to step in when I hit this wall, with his calm and logical manner. Myron used to help by taking over. Now I am alone, with thoughts I do not want to think, trying to find something I have no energy to do. But its how I survive my day until suddenly I am in the bathroom, or driving the car or packing up something trivial like used cheques with both our names on them, and that horrible feeling of “this is not right” bursts forth once again.
Last night I told God I hated him. Three times I told the Creator of the Universe that He had done something wrong, had made a terrible mistake and that I hated him for it. I felt a hand place itself on my head as He quietly said, “I know. And its okay.”
He owes me nothing and yet I feel like promises have been broken. And in my heart I know that I do not truly hate Him. I just hate this.
There is no comfort right now, only the bleak reality that I will continue to wake up, continue to breath and continue to learn to love Him despite it all. My children will continue to be an inspiration and hopefully, prayerfully, I hope to one day be able to reflect the strength and beauty of the community around me.
For I am in the same breath, thankful to a loving God who has supplied me with people of great compassion. People who minister. I have been surrounded by so many communities of love. My family, my friends, the church, my neighbourhood, Myron’s work, and our Summit staff who took their time and love and created an event purely to bless my family, the details of which astound and mystify me, as does the fruits of their labour.
And in the next breath, the first being “I hate you,” the second, “I thank you,” I am filled with an inexplicable sense that there is a divine exchange in the works. That heaven is opening and that something is being offered. Maybe to me, to my children, or maybe to all of us. And despite my desperation to be given back what I was not owed, I am compelled to raise my trembling hand and receive. A Divine Exchange. I know what has been taken. I sense that I know little of all that will be offered in return.
Monday, March 21, 2011
A Few Links to Share
I am constantly amazed at the resilience of children. My girls love to sing, dance and act. It has been particularly difficult for Bryn and Taeryn to not be able to dance, and yet they found a way. Like most parents, Myron and I had the pleasure of many, many original performances over the years. Friday nights were often "theatre night" where we were given tickets, a time, a seat and then a performance. Anyone who has spent any time with our kids knows that at some point they will be held hostage as an audience. I won't hold you hostage here, but I have included several links for those who have been asking.
Taeryn (8) and Bryn (10) wrote and performed this song for me in their wheelchairs. I've written out the words in case they aren't easily heard:
Even though its hard
Everything we have been through
Being hurt and scarred
Now I feel like we’re brand new
I want you to know
I love you
Cause when you fall down
I’ll help you to stand
And if they push you down
I’ll give you my hand
I love you…you
Forever and ever
Forever and ever
I love you
I love you
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=youtube_gdata_player&v=AKUrQn8R05Q
Lauren (age 14) had the opportunity to record these two songs, one she wrote with her dad shortly before his death, the other a song she appreciated the words to.
Our friend, Greg Norlin, an amazing pianist and musician, accompanied Lauren at the studio:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sWm5z53pK7g
and
http://www.youtube.com/user/ThePG38#p/a/u/0/zNelLiM1P8A
I hope the links are accessible this way.
Once Myron and I were driving through some spectacular countryside. As I looked out the window, I sighed and said, "My heart is singing." Whenever we drove by something particularly beautiful, he would always ask teasingly with a smile on his face, "Is your heart singing, hon?" When I listen and watch the beauty in my children, I can honestly say, that yes, my heart is singing.
Taeryn (8) and Bryn (10) wrote and performed this song for me in their wheelchairs. I've written out the words in case they aren't easily heard:
Even though its hard
Everything we have been through
Being hurt and scarred
Now I feel like we’re brand new
I want you to know
I love you
Cause when you fall down
I’ll help you to stand
And if they push you down
I’ll give you my hand
I love you…you
Forever and ever
Forever and ever
I love you
I love you
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=youtube_gdata_player&v=AKUrQn8R05Q
Lauren (age 14) had the opportunity to record these two songs, one she wrote with her dad shortly before his death, the other a song she appreciated the words to.
Our friend, Greg Norlin, an amazing pianist and musician, accompanied Lauren at the studio:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sWm5z53pK7g
and
http://www.youtube.com/user/ThePG38#p/a/u/0/zNelLiM1P8A
I hope the links are accessible this way.
Once Myron and I were driving through some spectacular countryside. As I looked out the window, I sighed and said, "My heart is singing." Whenever we drove by something particularly beautiful, he would always ask teasingly with a smile on his face, "Is your heart singing, hon?" When I listen and watch the beauty in my children, I can honestly say, that yes, my heart is singing.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
One Hour at a Time
I went to church today for the first time since Christmas Eve. It was, like so many things, both a source of comfort and a source of pain.
Sunday mornings were Myron’s domain. “Everybody up,” he’d holler around 8:00 a.m. “Time to get ready for church. Come on kids, we don’t want to be late!” I am not a morning person and could easily have chosen to miss the occasional 9:00 a.m. service in exchange for a few hours of much needed sleep. Myron, on the other hand, stayed up late and got up early. A few minutes later he’d peek into our room where I would be trying to postpone the inevitable. “Are you coming?“ he’d ask, positioning himself to dodge something I might throw at him (but never did). And as dragging myself out of a warm bed took me considerably longer than necessary, we would often be in a rush to make it on time.
Going to church was something he really hated missing.
Our church is divided into two halves of seating and each face the other straight on while the speaker uses the space in the middle. I was always a second row kind of person, close enough to the action to not miss anything, but buffered by a wall of those in the first row. Myron liked the front. If he ever beat me in to find seats I knew we’d be right up there (or to his disappointment in the back row, depending on how late we were). But this morning I didn’t want to be anywhere near the front. I wanted to hide. Because I knew this was going to be hard.
Hard because I could see him. I could see Myron standing in the front, hands raised, singing from his heart. I could see him talking to people, listening as they’d tell him something about their week, offering a word of encouragement or just an ear. Church was one place we could count on being together, side by side. It was torture seeing that empty spot, that space where he should have been standing. To know that I would now sit alone.
After lunch at home I sat on my couch and watched the clock. All four children were miraculously occupied. I sat there and realized that without the immediate focus on my children, I had nothing to plan for, nothing to anticipate. I had a meeting at 5:00 that evening and all I could do was wait for the clock to move ahead five hours until I should go.
A major part of my purpose in life has vanished. I was a wife. I still want to be a wife but not just any wife. I want to be his wife. Weekends were a time to connect after our busy week, to talk, to cream him in our Sunday afternoon scrabble game, to watch a movie or go for a walk. Even family outings were different because on weekends Myron could go with us. And even in my individuality, even in my walk as Gillian the person, my walk as a wife influenced everything I did. And so I sat and wondered, what now is my purpose? I still have my mother hat, but I had worn another for almost 18 years. We had goals. We had direction. We had things we wanted to accomplish together.
The cliché “one day at a time” is often too difficult. Today it was one hour at a time. Get through this hour to move on to the next, and the next and the next until I can fall asleep only to wake up and do it all over again.
I’ve not only lost him, I’ve lost me. Who I was, who I was functioning as. And while there are similarities to my life before the crash, I will now have to find a new direction, a new purpose, new goals. I will not be the same person. I will not be the same mother. I will not have the same future. It has all changed and right now it feels blank and very empty. I know it will take time, time and energy. I know that God will direct me in finding new purpose, but today it just feels like more death. The death again of all I believed would happen. The death of the old me.
During the meeting tonight a young man stood up and shared of a time where he felt directionless. A time where he was questioning where he belonged. And then he said a beautiful thing. He told the crowd that it was actually Myron who made it a point to ask him every few months how he was doing until at last he found his place. I was immediately in tears, partially because of my great pain that he was not there beside me, but even more so because of the unexpected tribute that marked my husband as someone who cared about others. I continue to be blessed and proud of the man he was and the small ways he impacted the people around him. And if I have nothing else to aspire to today, I have that. To be kind. To be generous with my encouragement. To hope for others when they have lost their hope.
The rest will have to come later.
Sunday mornings were Myron’s domain. “Everybody up,” he’d holler around 8:00 a.m. “Time to get ready for church. Come on kids, we don’t want to be late!” I am not a morning person and could easily have chosen to miss the occasional 9:00 a.m. service in exchange for a few hours of much needed sleep. Myron, on the other hand, stayed up late and got up early. A few minutes later he’d peek into our room where I would be trying to postpone the inevitable. “Are you coming?“ he’d ask, positioning himself to dodge something I might throw at him (but never did). And as dragging myself out of a warm bed took me considerably longer than necessary, we would often be in a rush to make it on time.
Going to church was something he really hated missing.
Our church is divided into two halves of seating and each face the other straight on while the speaker uses the space in the middle. I was always a second row kind of person, close enough to the action to not miss anything, but buffered by a wall of those in the first row. Myron liked the front. If he ever beat me in to find seats I knew we’d be right up there (or to his disappointment in the back row, depending on how late we were). But this morning I didn’t want to be anywhere near the front. I wanted to hide. Because I knew this was going to be hard.
Hard because I could see him. I could see Myron standing in the front, hands raised, singing from his heart. I could see him talking to people, listening as they’d tell him something about their week, offering a word of encouragement or just an ear. Church was one place we could count on being together, side by side. It was torture seeing that empty spot, that space where he should have been standing. To know that I would now sit alone.
After lunch at home I sat on my couch and watched the clock. All four children were miraculously occupied. I sat there and realized that without the immediate focus on my children, I had nothing to plan for, nothing to anticipate. I had a meeting at 5:00 that evening and all I could do was wait for the clock to move ahead five hours until I should go.
A major part of my purpose in life has vanished. I was a wife. I still want to be a wife but not just any wife. I want to be his wife. Weekends were a time to connect after our busy week, to talk, to cream him in our Sunday afternoon scrabble game, to watch a movie or go for a walk. Even family outings were different because on weekends Myron could go with us. And even in my individuality, even in my walk as Gillian the person, my walk as a wife influenced everything I did. And so I sat and wondered, what now is my purpose? I still have my mother hat, but I had worn another for almost 18 years. We had goals. We had direction. We had things we wanted to accomplish together.
The cliché “one day at a time” is often too difficult. Today it was one hour at a time. Get through this hour to move on to the next, and the next and the next until I can fall asleep only to wake up and do it all over again.
I’ve not only lost him, I’ve lost me. Who I was, who I was functioning as. And while there are similarities to my life before the crash, I will now have to find a new direction, a new purpose, new goals. I will not be the same person. I will not be the same mother. I will not have the same future. It has all changed and right now it feels blank and very empty. I know it will take time, time and energy. I know that God will direct me in finding new purpose, but today it just feels like more death. The death again of all I believed would happen. The death of the old me.
During the meeting tonight a young man stood up and shared of a time where he felt directionless. A time where he was questioning where he belonged. And then he said a beautiful thing. He told the crowd that it was actually Myron who made it a point to ask him every few months how he was doing until at last he found his place. I was immediately in tears, partially because of my great pain that he was not there beside me, but even more so because of the unexpected tribute that marked my husband as someone who cared about others. I continue to be blessed and proud of the man he was and the small ways he impacted the people around him. And if I have nothing else to aspire to today, I have that. To be kind. To be generous with my encouragement. To hope for others when they have lost their hope.
The rest will have to come later.
My Mosquito
One day years ago, I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor in the bathroom. For some reason I can only chalk up to pure boredom and perhaps too much time teaching kindergarten, I began to wonder which animal I would be if one were chosen to match my personality. This turned into a brainstorming session on assigning animals for the personalities of every member of my family.
Myron’s was a mosquito.
This sounds very unflattering but to be fair mine was an elephant so I’d say we were even. There were many choices I had for Myron, but I chose the mosquito that day for one particularly ridiculous personality trait of his: just as a mosquito finds a way to remain annoyingly out of reach, making enough noise to get you to swing at it, he loved to get people to react. It was never done in a mean way. Nothing rude or disrespectful, nothing to cause pain (except maybe to himself after I’d smack him and tell him to smarten up). Just enough to entertain himself. That was another thing about Myron. He had no problem finding ways to do just that.
My mother was a particularly good candidate. Myron learned quickly what to say or do to get a rise out of her. He found it very entertaining. And of course she fell for it every time. I, on the other hand, would glare at him making “cut it out“ signals but he just couldn’t help himself. If someone had an idiosyncrasy and Myron noticed it, out came the stick to poke at it until he got what he wanted.
Yes, self-entertainment came easily to my husband. In the beginning, grocery stores used to be a particular weakness.
One of the advantages of marriage is the bride’s directive that the groom run to the store when something is needed. Myron didn’t mind, even when the list contained items pertinent to women only. In fact he relished it.
Off he’d go armed with a list so detailed that I practically included the box labels. But where was the fun in that? Finding the feminine aisle he would begin walking up and down, looking perplexed, shoulders slumped and sighing out loud until some poor, unsuspecting female, usually older, would walk by and take pity on him. Out came his sob story: He’d been sent to the store by his wife but wasn’t sure what it was she needed. Could they help him figure it out? Of course, they always said, patting his arm, and soon he’d have two or three women explaining the merits of one item over another, searching the shelves for him as he’d ask stupid question after stupid question (my favourite being, “Does ‘maxi’ and ‘regular’ have to do with how much your wife weighs, because I‘d hate to bring the wrong one home and insult her!”), all the while keeping my list deep in his pocket and enjoying the scene he was creating.
I have no idea why this was so entertaining. Usually in life I try to keep from being conspicuous. Myron’s intentions were often the exact opposite. But home he’d come, enjoying not only the reaction he’d gotten at the store but the one I would give him as he would gleefully recount his adventure.
Mosquito.
Maybe this particular scenario had to do with a near childhood trauma involving the same products. Finding them in his mother's cupboard as a child, and living in a household of all boys, Myron had no idea what he was looking at. Finally he concluded they must be neck collars for of course, injuries to the neck. Coincidentally, the next morning he woke up with a sore neck and knowing now just what to do, peeled off the back and affixed the pad around his throat. He was heading down the driveway to school when his mother spotted him and made him take it off. He was furious. This story was told at our wedding and really any other opportunity it could be brought up. I could never decide if I was disappointed he hadn't made it to school or relieved. Had he done so I have no doubt it would have made for an even better story. However, the trauma of living through such an event could have maimed him for life, so I guess relieved is the better option.
However, the mosquito was just one part of his varied and complex personality. If I was to choose another animal to portray who my husband was, it would be the Saint Bernard. He was so loyal and so often my rescuer. “Here comes Myron,” I’d think to myself. “Its going to be okay, Myron’s here.” The sense of relief I felt when I spotted him coming towards me was huge. Friendly. Willing. Loyal. And he often told me of similar thoughts when he’d look up and see me coming towards him. Last summer he had taken the children to our camp’s anniversary weekend. I had stayed home to have a break, but on the Monday morning felt a need to be with them. I saw him talking with a couple of men across a field and made my way over. “I looked up and saw you coming and my heart jumped,” he said with a hug when I’d reached him. “I felt so happy. I thought, there’s my wife! I am so happy to see my wife.”
I remember feeling that way just hours before he died. Sitting in the restaurant at Harrison with Karson, waiting for him to come from the room where he was on the phone with work, trying to sort out some difficulty they were having. The girls had finished and were in the pool squeezing in one more swim before leaving. And suddenly, there he was, striding across the crowded floor of the dining room, and I remember thinking once again with a full heart as I watched him make his way over to us, “There’s he is. There’s my husband. Everything’s good now. Everything‘s good.”
Myron’s was a mosquito.
This sounds very unflattering but to be fair mine was an elephant so I’d say we were even. There were many choices I had for Myron, but I chose the mosquito that day for one particularly ridiculous personality trait of his: just as a mosquito finds a way to remain annoyingly out of reach, making enough noise to get you to swing at it, he loved to get people to react. It was never done in a mean way. Nothing rude or disrespectful, nothing to cause pain (except maybe to himself after I’d smack him and tell him to smarten up). Just enough to entertain himself. That was another thing about Myron. He had no problem finding ways to do just that.
My mother was a particularly good candidate. Myron learned quickly what to say or do to get a rise out of her. He found it very entertaining. And of course she fell for it every time. I, on the other hand, would glare at him making “cut it out“ signals but he just couldn’t help himself. If someone had an idiosyncrasy and Myron noticed it, out came the stick to poke at it until he got what he wanted.
Yes, self-entertainment came easily to my husband. In the beginning, grocery stores used to be a particular weakness.
One of the advantages of marriage is the bride’s directive that the groom run to the store when something is needed. Myron didn’t mind, even when the list contained items pertinent to women only. In fact he relished it.
Off he’d go armed with a list so detailed that I practically included the box labels. But where was the fun in that? Finding the feminine aisle he would begin walking up and down, looking perplexed, shoulders slumped and sighing out loud until some poor, unsuspecting female, usually older, would walk by and take pity on him. Out came his sob story: He’d been sent to the store by his wife but wasn’t sure what it was she needed. Could they help him figure it out? Of course, they always said, patting his arm, and soon he’d have two or three women explaining the merits of one item over another, searching the shelves for him as he’d ask stupid question after stupid question (my favourite being, “Does ‘maxi’ and ‘regular’ have to do with how much your wife weighs, because I‘d hate to bring the wrong one home and insult her!”), all the while keeping my list deep in his pocket and enjoying the scene he was creating.
I have no idea why this was so entertaining. Usually in life I try to keep from being conspicuous. Myron’s intentions were often the exact opposite. But home he’d come, enjoying not only the reaction he’d gotten at the store but the one I would give him as he would gleefully recount his adventure.
Mosquito.
Maybe this particular scenario had to do with a near childhood trauma involving the same products. Finding them in his mother's cupboard as a child, and living in a household of all boys, Myron had no idea what he was looking at. Finally he concluded they must be neck collars for of course, injuries to the neck. Coincidentally, the next morning he woke up with a sore neck and knowing now just what to do, peeled off the back and affixed the pad around his throat. He was heading down the driveway to school when his mother spotted him and made him take it off. He was furious. This story was told at our wedding and really any other opportunity it could be brought up. I could never decide if I was disappointed he hadn't made it to school or relieved. Had he done so I have no doubt it would have made for an even better story. However, the trauma of living through such an event could have maimed him for life, so I guess relieved is the better option.
However, the mosquito was just one part of his varied and complex personality. If I was to choose another animal to portray who my husband was, it would be the Saint Bernard. He was so loyal and so often my rescuer. “Here comes Myron,” I’d think to myself. “Its going to be okay, Myron’s here.” The sense of relief I felt when I spotted him coming towards me was huge. Friendly. Willing. Loyal. And he often told me of similar thoughts when he’d look up and see me coming towards him. Last summer he had taken the children to our camp’s anniversary weekend. I had stayed home to have a break, but on the Monday morning felt a need to be with them. I saw him talking with a couple of men across a field and made my way over. “I looked up and saw you coming and my heart jumped,” he said with a hug when I’d reached him. “I felt so happy. I thought, there’s my wife! I am so happy to see my wife.”
I remember feeling that way just hours before he died. Sitting in the restaurant at Harrison with Karson, waiting for him to come from the room where he was on the phone with work, trying to sort out some difficulty they were having. The girls had finished and were in the pool squeezing in one more swim before leaving. And suddenly, there he was, striding across the crowded floor of the dining room, and I remember thinking once again with a full heart as I watched him make his way over to us, “There’s he is. There’s my husband. Everything’s good now. Everything‘s good.”
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Grieving Properly
I found myself driving into town today to attend one of two meetings. The first one went smoothly and as I set off to the next, I suddenly realized I had no idea where I was or where I was going. I knew who I was heading to see. I had been there many times. But my mind suddenly became a blank. For the life of me I could not remember where that office was or how to get there. I had to keep driving, there was no place to pull over and the pure inability to pull my thoughts together felt ridiculous. I tried to force myself to think…where was it? What direction did I need to turn? After several blocks of what felt like pure mental blindness, the facts began to rise out of the mist, and I could navigate my way again.
A moment of joy, then complete mental fog. I made it to the office, dropped off what I needed and headed for home. Moments later something random swam into my thinking and suddenly I was weeping.
I don’t know what “grieving properly” means. I don’t know. As I drove today, the emotions kept switching from one to another, with no warning, no logic, as they often do. One thought comes to mind and I smile. Another floats in right behind it and I burst into tears. I have found myself suddenly expressing frustration over something and realize that it’s my anger talking. I walk past his picture on the piano one moment able to look at it, and on the next sweep by I’m crippled by sorrow. Is this the definition of grieving properly?
I know that everyone grieves differently. I also know that it is essential to do so. To be real. To be honest.
I can say, honestly, I don’t know how to do this. I do not know how to be there for the kids and have time to fall apart myself. There are days where I am just numb, and I am often grateful for those moments, moments when the searing pain of reality has been held back for a few hours. It feels like a time to catch my breath, to look around and see what needs to be done, to see how I can support my family in whatever challenge they have to meet this day. And then there are the days where I wake up and the tears just start flowing. Where I look at my son, just turning six, and think about all that he has lost. Where I see him quietly ask every person who enters our home, stranger or not, “Will you play a game with me?“ when what he is really saying is, who is going to be my dad? Where I look at my girls, so courageous, yet knowing that the birthday was in part painful; that the anticipation of a new season of fastball means that for the first time she isn’t the coach’s daughter and that he won’t be there to hug her and brag about her great play; that the stories he used to make up for the younger ones as they lay in bed at night have ended.
And I have times where I am overwhelmed with the injustice of it all. Why him? Why not the 80 year old who had the chance to watch his kids grow up, or the guy who was doing terrible things to the people in his life? And then the guilt hits because I know I have just wished for the death of another person to replace my own terrible loss.
One after another, the waves of emotion can roll and swamp my heart until I have no energy left to think. The so-called stages of grief melt into one another, like the paints my children use, colour infringing upon colour, mixing and running together until it all just seems like mud.
And then I wake up to begin it all over again.
There are good days. Days where I feel grateful almost all the time. Days where I am overwhelmed with how completely unworthy I am to receive what people are giving. Days where I can remember him and laugh, tell the kids stories and share silly memories. And there are the days where it feels like this is an impossible task. And I think people must be sick of hearing about my hurt, of witnessing our life that right now seems to be always about us, even when we don’t want it to be.
And so what is proper grief? Pain, anger? The comfort of holding a child, the sobbing on the shoulder of someone who cares? Finding yourself smiling and yet feeling your heart crumbling simultaneously? Thanking God, yelling at Him?
I guess it all is. I suspect there will be much more as time drags me with it.
The children have added aquatic therapy onto their full physio schedules. Lauren’s arm is progressing well. She has been so diligent in her therapy and today she threw a softball for the first time since pitching clinic in early December. She even tried an easy pitch and was thrilled that it hit the strike zone. (I was waiting for it to come through the window as I imagined what her aim would be like after such an injury, so we were both very pleased.)
Bryn is also working hard and I continue to be amazed at how gracefully she accepts her condition. There is no complaining that she has to work, that her leg remains immobile, that she is dependent on her crutches for everything. She is so determined to not use her wheelchair that everything else seems like a gift. I suspect that having been wrapped in a body cast for two months is harder than it looked. Her only frustration is the boredom she fights being so limited in activity.
Taeryn swings back and forth between amazing progress and non-threatening but painful setbacks. I sat and watched her pool therapy yesterday and the image of her lying lifeless in the wreckage of the van tore at me once again. How can it be that she has progressed back into this vibrant, energetic, walking little girl? It astounds me over and over and as I watched her move and work her little arms and legs, I was again so profoundly grateful. It gave me strength to again promise myself that I would not give up on this journey. I would not do anything to rob them of more. She is, however, experiencing frequent pain in the injured area of her neck where the ligaments were torn and has had to wear her neck collar on and off again. (She had insisted on bringing it home from the hospital, as well as pieces of her casts, and now regrets it as it was handy to put back on.) Her knees were so swollen last night that she couldn’t bear any weight on them and had to use a wheelchair for part of the day, as well as her hand continues to swell and turn black with use. But she is walking well on her good days and I see so much improvement.
Karson is also working with a kinesiologist in the pool and is fully functional. His emotional status grieves me but I am hoping that the counselling we have all began attending individually will be of good support.
You would be proud of them, Myron. I think often of how you would be as amazed by them as I have. How you would be calling and writing, stopping people on the street to tell of the four incredible children that call you dad. Keep watching us. Keep interceding for us, hon. I’m counting on it.
A moment of joy, then complete mental fog. I made it to the office, dropped off what I needed and headed for home. Moments later something random swam into my thinking and suddenly I was weeping.
I don’t know what “grieving properly” means. I don’t know. As I drove today, the emotions kept switching from one to another, with no warning, no logic, as they often do. One thought comes to mind and I smile. Another floats in right behind it and I burst into tears. I have found myself suddenly expressing frustration over something and realize that it’s my anger talking. I walk past his picture on the piano one moment able to look at it, and on the next sweep by I’m crippled by sorrow. Is this the definition of grieving properly?
I know that everyone grieves differently. I also know that it is essential to do so. To be real. To be honest.
I can say, honestly, I don’t know how to do this. I do not know how to be there for the kids and have time to fall apart myself. There are days where I am just numb, and I am often grateful for those moments, moments when the searing pain of reality has been held back for a few hours. It feels like a time to catch my breath, to look around and see what needs to be done, to see how I can support my family in whatever challenge they have to meet this day. And then there are the days where I wake up and the tears just start flowing. Where I look at my son, just turning six, and think about all that he has lost. Where I see him quietly ask every person who enters our home, stranger or not, “Will you play a game with me?“ when what he is really saying is, who is going to be my dad? Where I look at my girls, so courageous, yet knowing that the birthday was in part painful; that the anticipation of a new season of fastball means that for the first time she isn’t the coach’s daughter and that he won’t be there to hug her and brag about her great play; that the stories he used to make up for the younger ones as they lay in bed at night have ended.
And I have times where I am overwhelmed with the injustice of it all. Why him? Why not the 80 year old who had the chance to watch his kids grow up, or the guy who was doing terrible things to the people in his life? And then the guilt hits because I know I have just wished for the death of another person to replace my own terrible loss.
One after another, the waves of emotion can roll and swamp my heart until I have no energy left to think. The so-called stages of grief melt into one another, like the paints my children use, colour infringing upon colour, mixing and running together until it all just seems like mud.
And then I wake up to begin it all over again.
There are good days. Days where I feel grateful almost all the time. Days where I am overwhelmed with how completely unworthy I am to receive what people are giving. Days where I can remember him and laugh, tell the kids stories and share silly memories. And there are the days where it feels like this is an impossible task. And I think people must be sick of hearing about my hurt, of witnessing our life that right now seems to be always about us, even when we don’t want it to be.
And so what is proper grief? Pain, anger? The comfort of holding a child, the sobbing on the shoulder of someone who cares? Finding yourself smiling and yet feeling your heart crumbling simultaneously? Thanking God, yelling at Him?
I guess it all is. I suspect there will be much more as time drags me with it.
The children have added aquatic therapy onto their full physio schedules. Lauren’s arm is progressing well. She has been so diligent in her therapy and today she threw a softball for the first time since pitching clinic in early December. She even tried an easy pitch and was thrilled that it hit the strike zone. (I was waiting for it to come through the window as I imagined what her aim would be like after such an injury, so we were both very pleased.)
Bryn is also working hard and I continue to be amazed at how gracefully she accepts her condition. There is no complaining that she has to work, that her leg remains immobile, that she is dependent on her crutches for everything. She is so determined to not use her wheelchair that everything else seems like a gift. I suspect that having been wrapped in a body cast for two months is harder than it looked. Her only frustration is the boredom she fights being so limited in activity.
Taeryn swings back and forth between amazing progress and non-threatening but painful setbacks. I sat and watched her pool therapy yesterday and the image of her lying lifeless in the wreckage of the van tore at me once again. How can it be that she has progressed back into this vibrant, energetic, walking little girl? It astounds me over and over and as I watched her move and work her little arms and legs, I was again so profoundly grateful. It gave me strength to again promise myself that I would not give up on this journey. I would not do anything to rob them of more. She is, however, experiencing frequent pain in the injured area of her neck where the ligaments were torn and has had to wear her neck collar on and off again. (She had insisted on bringing it home from the hospital, as well as pieces of her casts, and now regrets it as it was handy to put back on.) Her knees were so swollen last night that she couldn’t bear any weight on them and had to use a wheelchair for part of the day, as well as her hand continues to swell and turn black with use. But she is walking well on her good days and I see so much improvement.
Karson is also working with a kinesiologist in the pool and is fully functional. His emotional status grieves me but I am hoping that the counselling we have all began attending individually will be of good support.
You would be proud of them, Myron. I think often of how you would be as amazed by them as I have. How you would be calling and writing, stopping people on the street to tell of the four incredible children that call you dad. Keep watching us. Keep interceding for us, hon. I’m counting on it.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
A Living Love
I think my view of love is changing. I am beginning to see it in a new way.
Tonight I found myself wondering how to comprehend a love that allows loss. That allows pain. I found two messages on our answering machine that Myron had left me in the week before our crash. The sound of his voice, so normal, so familiar, opened up a new flood of anguish. I am again in disbelief that I will never hear that voice again. Will never again receive a call as I did so often during my day. Will never hear him again call me “Hon” or Karson “buddy”. The voice that started my days and ended my nights is reduced to a few words on a machine. It breaks me.
Many wonder why a God who loves us allows us to hurt. Even in my knowledge of His grace, I find myself challenging the parameters of His promises. This love hurts. In fact, it can be torturous.
So now that the man who loved me, whom I loved for so long is no longer here to receive it, to give it, what do I do? Because the part of me that has soaked in that love remains saturated. It doesn’t just begin to seep out, to drain away as if his death has pulled out a plug of some sort. It remains. It lives. It cannot be removed.
The love that I once benefited from is now causing me pain. Myron carried all that I had given to him, just as I carry all that he had invested in me. We held a part of each other. And now that this love is in part wounding instead of nurturing, I find myself looking to it as one would a sliver that hides itself in the flesh, invisible, but making itself known at the slightest touch. What is it? Where is it? What do I do with it?
I have had the chance to invest in people. Every day I receive more of those chances, people I know, people I live with, people I pass on the street. This was both true before the accident and since. I do not always use those chances. Many I pass up because I am too busy, too selfish, too ignorant. Sometimes I am just too tired. But I recognize that Myron invested in me, daily. Not perfectly by any means, but continuously. By sharing himself, whether in encouragement or failure, in sacrifice or faithfulness, he was able to help create something good. Something we called love. Something that became a part of me and began to live inside of me.
I see now that love is a living thing. When I receive love it roots within me. It grows. It makes a home. I see his love, my love, rooted in our children. I now witness the love offered to us, invested by those around us, rooting itself in my family. Making its home. Curling its vines around our hope, our character, our beliefs.
And I see that Myron’s love has not ended. It lives. It is invested. It hurts because I now have to receive from elsewhere and there is a very sad and desperate part of me that does not wish to exchange that source. However, God is granting, despite this reluctance, infinite new investments from countless others. And now that I know that love is a living thing, I am more aware of not only the blessing of receiving it, but the gift of planting it.
This did not make hearing his voice any easier this evening. It is not abating the hurt that will sleep with me tonight. I will never stop longing to hear his voice spoken from beside me instead of being reduced to replaying a few words on an answering machine. But if I remember to take stock of what he has invested in me, in our family, if I hope to continue to invest of myself in others as they have in us, it helps. Only a little. But it helps.
Happy 11th birthday, my darling and courageous Bryn. I pray you would sense the deep roots of the love your dad invested in you, the love that I wish to daily contribute towards and that God unendingly offers.
Tonight I found myself wondering how to comprehend a love that allows loss. That allows pain. I found two messages on our answering machine that Myron had left me in the week before our crash. The sound of his voice, so normal, so familiar, opened up a new flood of anguish. I am again in disbelief that I will never hear that voice again. Will never again receive a call as I did so often during my day. Will never hear him again call me “Hon” or Karson “buddy”. The voice that started my days and ended my nights is reduced to a few words on a machine. It breaks me.
Many wonder why a God who loves us allows us to hurt. Even in my knowledge of His grace, I find myself challenging the parameters of His promises. This love hurts. In fact, it can be torturous.
So now that the man who loved me, whom I loved for so long is no longer here to receive it, to give it, what do I do? Because the part of me that has soaked in that love remains saturated. It doesn’t just begin to seep out, to drain away as if his death has pulled out a plug of some sort. It remains. It lives. It cannot be removed.
The love that I once benefited from is now causing me pain. Myron carried all that I had given to him, just as I carry all that he had invested in me. We held a part of each other. And now that this love is in part wounding instead of nurturing, I find myself looking to it as one would a sliver that hides itself in the flesh, invisible, but making itself known at the slightest touch. What is it? Where is it? What do I do with it?
I have had the chance to invest in people. Every day I receive more of those chances, people I know, people I live with, people I pass on the street. This was both true before the accident and since. I do not always use those chances. Many I pass up because I am too busy, too selfish, too ignorant. Sometimes I am just too tired. But I recognize that Myron invested in me, daily. Not perfectly by any means, but continuously. By sharing himself, whether in encouragement or failure, in sacrifice or faithfulness, he was able to help create something good. Something we called love. Something that became a part of me and began to live inside of me.
I see now that love is a living thing. When I receive love it roots within me. It grows. It makes a home. I see his love, my love, rooted in our children. I now witness the love offered to us, invested by those around us, rooting itself in my family. Making its home. Curling its vines around our hope, our character, our beliefs.
And I see that Myron’s love has not ended. It lives. It is invested. It hurts because I now have to receive from elsewhere and there is a very sad and desperate part of me that does not wish to exchange that source. However, God is granting, despite this reluctance, infinite new investments from countless others. And now that I know that love is a living thing, I am more aware of not only the blessing of receiving it, but the gift of planting it.
This did not make hearing his voice any easier this evening. It is not abating the hurt that will sleep with me tonight. I will never stop longing to hear his voice spoken from beside me instead of being reduced to replaying a few words on an answering machine. But if I remember to take stock of what he has invested in me, in our family, if I hope to continue to invest of myself in others as they have in us, it helps. Only a little. But it helps.
Happy 11th birthday, my darling and courageous Bryn. I pray you would sense the deep roots of the love your dad invested in you, the love that I wish to daily contribute towards and that God unendingly offers.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Week One
We have been home just over one week and I am unable to think coherently, to write anything that makes much sense. In our first week we have experienced a stomach flu that left Karson throwing up for 9 straight hours, three vicious head-colds, a backed-up toilet, two flooded bathroom floors, a gas leak, lost three nights of sleep and I’ve missed garbage day twice. We have had seven visits from therapists, gone to four appointments, have had six servicemen work on various parts of the house, seven different assistant care workers (all good) and I’ve answered more necessary phone calls than I can count.
But...we’ve also had meals pre-prepared for every evening, received baking, cards, friends who have rushed over at a moment’s notice, a teacher who spent her morning encouraging us, a family outing for the kids, and the love of a friend who flew here to walk the challenge of this homecoming with us.
Week one. No time to write. No time to think. The numbness is back but I know the pain will ascend again. It is a bit unnerving not knowing when. Will I wake up tomorrow in agony or in auto-mode? Will I have to deal with something new that will distract or have the unwanted moments when all I feel is loss? Will I have the patience to love, or will I speak out of fear? Every day is a new challenge. A challenge to choose thankfulness over bitterness, hope over despair. To see the children’s progress instead of the scars. A challenge I am not always up for but always facing.
My prayer life has dwindled down to one thought: Help us. In everything, please help us. Help me not to feel guilty for receiving from others. Help me not to choose bitterness. Help me not to miss the important things, the moments where I need to pay attention. Help us to not fear but to love. Help them to survive. Just, help us. Please.
And then help comes. The doorbell rings and it is a neighbour with soup, a cake, muffins. Family arrives to lighten the load. My freezer is suddenly filled with food made by hands who want to give. Someone calls late at night to ask if they can do something for me just as I sit staring at a grocery list, not knowing when I can get to the store. It just comes.
Thank you all, for answering my prayers, for loving us. I glimpse the news, of Japan who’s land has been shredded, who’s people live in the fear of another wave of disaster, and in my own small little world I realize for the moment how safely we are actually being held. Not to remove us from the circumstance, but maybe to support us in the aftershocks. And I think, that for this day at least, we will face the challenge.
It was our first week home.
But...we’ve also had meals pre-prepared for every evening, received baking, cards, friends who have rushed over at a moment’s notice, a teacher who spent her morning encouraging us, a family outing for the kids, and the love of a friend who flew here to walk the challenge of this homecoming with us.
Week one. No time to write. No time to think. The numbness is back but I know the pain will ascend again. It is a bit unnerving not knowing when. Will I wake up tomorrow in agony or in auto-mode? Will I have to deal with something new that will distract or have the unwanted moments when all I feel is loss? Will I have the patience to love, or will I speak out of fear? Every day is a new challenge. A challenge to choose thankfulness over bitterness, hope over despair. To see the children’s progress instead of the scars. A challenge I am not always up for but always facing.
My prayer life has dwindled down to one thought: Help us. In everything, please help us. Help me not to feel guilty for receiving from others. Help me not to choose bitterness. Help me not to miss the important things, the moments where I need to pay attention. Help us to not fear but to love. Help them to survive. Just, help us. Please.
And then help comes. The doorbell rings and it is a neighbour with soup, a cake, muffins. Family arrives to lighten the load. My freezer is suddenly filled with food made by hands who want to give. Someone calls late at night to ask if they can do something for me just as I sit staring at a grocery list, not knowing when I can get to the store. It just comes.
Thank you all, for answering my prayers, for loving us. I glimpse the news, of Japan who’s land has been shredded, who’s people live in the fear of another wave of disaster, and in my own small little world I realize for the moment how safely we are actually being held. Not to remove us from the circumstance, but maybe to support us in the aftershocks. And I think, that for this day at least, we will face the challenge.
It was our first week home.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Just A Sad Day
The children seem to be settling back into their home life but it has been hectic. I guess the fact that life was hectic before the accident possibly makes this seem somewhat normal, but I am tired. Tired and broken-hearted.
There are so many decisions to be made, important decisions about physiotherapy and medicines, homecare and renovations, how to rearrange things and how to handle finances. Then there are just the everyday choices that have not receded to make room for the new ones. They have just compounded. Today I found myself standing in Canadian Tire staring at the towel hooks. I just needed a hook, nothing special. But I found myself unable to choose. So many important decisions to make on a minute-by-minute basis, and I cannot even pick a hook for the bathroom door. I feel incapable of making a decision about even the simplest of things without first struggling to find the focus to do so.
It is difficult to function as one when you are used to functioning as two. Myron and I were opposites. Every personality test we ever took rated us as far apart as it could. He logical and detail oriented, I spontaneous. He calm and easy-going, I fiery and passionate. We balanced each other, like two people on a teeter-totter.
That see-saw was often in motion. We’d teeter back and forth between each other’s strengths and weaknesses. And although at times that was frustrating, I am reminded that there is something important that happens in the process. There is a vulnerability. We each had to learn to leave the security of the ground to allow the other side its chance to sink or soar. And that meant trusting the other to do the same. Sometimes it tipped on my side, sometimes on his. And sometimes we learned to hang in the balance, each providing what was needed to stay horizontal. We were learning more and more how to make it work.
Now the weight on the other end has vanished. I sit in the dirt after having crashed to the ground, staring up at his empty seat suspended in the air. There is no-one to balance me now. No one to provide the strength to help keep it in motion. Just me, looking up into the sky at the spot where my husband used to sit. And I mourn not only the man, but the process. The life we had experienced together. The vulnerability we had shared. There were many moments in our seventeen years where I wanted things my way. Now everything is going to be my way. And there is a horrible emptiness to it. The process of sharing that responsibility, of teetering back and forth, of balancing and soaring is a precious and valuable thing. And I miss it.
I began the process of packing up his clothing this week, sometimes efficiently, at moments sobbing as I tried to sort which items could possibly be meaningful to me or to one of my children in the future. How do I do this? How can I go through what remains of him and pick and choose what is important? Everything feels important. His weights in the basement, his baseball cleats and uniform, jerseys and dress shirts and his music collection. Each object brings on a new wave of pain and loss. I had fooled myself into thinking I was feeling acceptance. Now I suspect what I thought was acceptance is actually still shock. And in the moments where the shock subsides, there is only pain. Deep and debilitating pain.
I had moved my wedding band to my right hand the day we came home. I had decided to do it as a symbolic gesture that we were beginning a new life, but I cannot leave it as such. I confessed this tonight to my friend and my oldest daughter who said, “I don’t think you should ever have to take it off. It doesn’t matter what other people think if in your heart you still feel like you’re married.” She may be right or in time it might feel right to remove it. Today, I cannot. I’ve moved it back to my left hand. Right now I guess it is just symbolic of what I still long for. What I feel inside.
Someone gave me a quote from a novel. In essence it challenged me to not live in anger about the future I have lost, but to be thankful for every moment I was given. Maybe tomorrow I will be able to focus on those memories. But not today. Today was just a very sad day. A day where it felt like he should have come home for dinner. But the door never opened and he never came. It was just a very sad day.
There are so many decisions to be made, important decisions about physiotherapy and medicines, homecare and renovations, how to rearrange things and how to handle finances. Then there are just the everyday choices that have not receded to make room for the new ones. They have just compounded. Today I found myself standing in Canadian Tire staring at the towel hooks. I just needed a hook, nothing special. But I found myself unable to choose. So many important decisions to make on a minute-by-minute basis, and I cannot even pick a hook for the bathroom door. I feel incapable of making a decision about even the simplest of things without first struggling to find the focus to do so.
It is difficult to function as one when you are used to functioning as two. Myron and I were opposites. Every personality test we ever took rated us as far apart as it could. He logical and detail oriented, I spontaneous. He calm and easy-going, I fiery and passionate. We balanced each other, like two people on a teeter-totter.
That see-saw was often in motion. We’d teeter back and forth between each other’s strengths and weaknesses. And although at times that was frustrating, I am reminded that there is something important that happens in the process. There is a vulnerability. We each had to learn to leave the security of the ground to allow the other side its chance to sink or soar. And that meant trusting the other to do the same. Sometimes it tipped on my side, sometimes on his. And sometimes we learned to hang in the balance, each providing what was needed to stay horizontal. We were learning more and more how to make it work.
Now the weight on the other end has vanished. I sit in the dirt after having crashed to the ground, staring up at his empty seat suspended in the air. There is no-one to balance me now. No one to provide the strength to help keep it in motion. Just me, looking up into the sky at the spot where my husband used to sit. And I mourn not only the man, but the process. The life we had experienced together. The vulnerability we had shared. There were many moments in our seventeen years where I wanted things my way. Now everything is going to be my way. And there is a horrible emptiness to it. The process of sharing that responsibility, of teetering back and forth, of balancing and soaring is a precious and valuable thing. And I miss it.
I began the process of packing up his clothing this week, sometimes efficiently, at moments sobbing as I tried to sort which items could possibly be meaningful to me or to one of my children in the future. How do I do this? How can I go through what remains of him and pick and choose what is important? Everything feels important. His weights in the basement, his baseball cleats and uniform, jerseys and dress shirts and his music collection. Each object brings on a new wave of pain and loss. I had fooled myself into thinking I was feeling acceptance. Now I suspect what I thought was acceptance is actually still shock. And in the moments where the shock subsides, there is only pain. Deep and debilitating pain.
I had moved my wedding band to my right hand the day we came home. I had decided to do it as a symbolic gesture that we were beginning a new life, but I cannot leave it as such. I confessed this tonight to my friend and my oldest daughter who said, “I don’t think you should ever have to take it off. It doesn’t matter what other people think if in your heart you still feel like you’re married.” She may be right or in time it might feel right to remove it. Today, I cannot. I’ve moved it back to my left hand. Right now I guess it is just symbolic of what I still long for. What I feel inside.
Someone gave me a quote from a novel. In essence it challenged me to not live in anger about the future I have lost, but to be thankful for every moment I was given. Maybe tomorrow I will be able to focus on those memories. But not today. Today was just a very sad day. A day where it felt like he should have come home for dinner. But the door never opened and he never came. It was just a very sad day.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Home
We're home!
After being cautious and a bit anxious about returning, the children did a complete reversal and were beside themselves with excitement about returning to Mission. They drank in the familiar sights and at one point Bryn said, "I don't want to talk right now, I just want to look. I haven't seen our city for so long. I just want to look."
After the memorial I decided that I would redecorate their rooms for their homecoming. I wanted to give them a reason to be excited about returning, a new space for them to enjoy, something to mark this next stage. An incredible group of people helped to make this possible and I want to thank you, Rick and Hilary and friends, Nathan, Dale, Shane, Rod, Ron, Crystal, Cathy, Randy, Frank, Walden, Rick and especially Mike and Anthony (amongst others whom I am sure to have missed naming) who poured countless hours into our home. How can I thank you? I cannot. But I know that had Myron been here, he would have been as overwhelmed as I at the generosity of time and effort you have blessed us with. We are underserving, but so very grateful.
The children were so excited to see their rooms and every hour of driving back and forth, working late into the night, of shopping online and rushing into stores, of budgeting and being blessed with financial generosity was made worthwhile. Screams of joy, tears and hugs. They were astounded and honoured to receive such a thing. It was a treat to watch their reactions, to see the excitement and disbelief after so many weeks of difficulty.
They have done remarkably well this first 24 hours. Sleeping continues to be difficult for some as the nightly terrors descend as quickly here at home as they did at the hospital, but the day was spent unpacking and organizing as they settled in. Taeryn had a fall within the first two hours and I honestly do not know how to keep her from hurting herself in her exuberance. She overdid things today and was in considerable pain this evening, asking for the first time to be back in the wheelchair which I brought in from the truck for her. Her arm and hand are swollen again and her knees and legs hurt from the amount of walking she is doing around the house. I hope to have her in the chair more tomorrow. Bryn is managing well in the home with the crutches and cast. She was able to have a real shower tonight which I imagine felt quite wonderful. A friend is staying with us and has cooked and helped entertain. Such a blessing. So many blessings.
But it is late now and I have had little time to just be still. I stayed up through the night with those struggling to sleep and hope to now sleep some myself.
Thank you all for your prayers.
Gillian
After being cautious and a bit anxious about returning, the children did a complete reversal and were beside themselves with excitement about returning to Mission. They drank in the familiar sights and at one point Bryn said, "I don't want to talk right now, I just want to look. I haven't seen our city for so long. I just want to look."
After the memorial I decided that I would redecorate their rooms for their homecoming. I wanted to give them a reason to be excited about returning, a new space for them to enjoy, something to mark this next stage. An incredible group of people helped to make this possible and I want to thank you, Rick and Hilary and friends, Nathan, Dale, Shane, Rod, Ron, Crystal, Cathy, Randy, Frank, Walden, Rick and especially Mike and Anthony (amongst others whom I am sure to have missed naming) who poured countless hours into our home. How can I thank you? I cannot. But I know that had Myron been here, he would have been as overwhelmed as I at the generosity of time and effort you have blessed us with. We are underserving, but so very grateful.
The children were so excited to see their rooms and every hour of driving back and forth, working late into the night, of shopping online and rushing into stores, of budgeting and being blessed with financial generosity was made worthwhile. Screams of joy, tears and hugs. They were astounded and honoured to receive such a thing. It was a treat to watch their reactions, to see the excitement and disbelief after so many weeks of difficulty.
They have done remarkably well this first 24 hours. Sleeping continues to be difficult for some as the nightly terrors descend as quickly here at home as they did at the hospital, but the day was spent unpacking and organizing as they settled in. Taeryn had a fall within the first two hours and I honestly do not know how to keep her from hurting herself in her exuberance. She overdid things today and was in considerable pain this evening, asking for the first time to be back in the wheelchair which I brought in from the truck for her. Her arm and hand are swollen again and her knees and legs hurt from the amount of walking she is doing around the house. I hope to have her in the chair more tomorrow. Bryn is managing well in the home with the crutches and cast. She was able to have a real shower tonight which I imagine felt quite wonderful. A friend is staying with us and has cooked and helped entertain. Such a blessing. So many blessings.
But it is late now and I have had little time to just be still. I stayed up through the night with those struggling to sleep and hope to now sleep some myself.
Thank you all for your prayers.
Gillian
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Four Days
Today was another milestone day. We have been given the green light to go home on Saturday morning. It is something we have been working so hard towards and today it was written down as fact. Every member of the hospital team was in agreement. We are almost ready to go.
Four days.
We have been longing for home. Longing for the familiarity and comfort of what belongs to us. Longing to be back in our own community surrounded by familiar faces and landmarks. Longing to be told that our bodies are beginning to heal enough to release us back into the world of everyday living.
We are longing.
But it is sinking in that our longing will be disappointed. The girls are now hesitant about returning home. After weeks of looking forward to it, the reality of what we will be returning to is making itself known. An empty house. For Myron is not there, just as he has not been here. We are wanting something that will hurt us. Returning home will hurt.
In four days we will begin the first day of a new life. And I find myself shrinking away from it and succumbing to a new wave of tears and disappointment. I don't want to hurt anymore. My children do not want to hurt. But the only way to stem the hurting is to heal. And the only way to heal is to step into what will hurt. And so we are stuck. Stuck with a situation that has trapped us and made us feel powerless and vulnerable. We can either run from it or step into it. There are many moments I just want to run. But in four days, we will instead step forward into the pain.
Four days.
Four days.
We have been longing for home. Longing for the familiarity and comfort of what belongs to us. Longing to be back in our own community surrounded by familiar faces and landmarks. Longing to be told that our bodies are beginning to heal enough to release us back into the world of everyday living.
We are longing.
But it is sinking in that our longing will be disappointed. The girls are now hesitant about returning home. After weeks of looking forward to it, the reality of what we will be returning to is making itself known. An empty house. For Myron is not there, just as he has not been here. We are wanting something that will hurt us. Returning home will hurt.
In four days we will begin the first day of a new life. And I find myself shrinking away from it and succumbing to a new wave of tears and disappointment. I don't want to hurt anymore. My children do not want to hurt. But the only way to stem the hurting is to heal. And the only way to heal is to step into what will hurt. And so we are stuck. Stuck with a situation that has trapped us and made us feel powerless and vulnerable. We can either run from it or step into it. There are many moments I just want to run. But in four days, we will instead step forward into the pain.
Four days.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)